by Trevor Clark
“Anyway, Lester, this older black guy, is taking pictures of all the babes in his audience with an instamatic hooked to his belt while his band was warming up the crowd. Oh, I should mention that the bar was packed, but we somehow lucked out with an empty table right in front of the stage.
“So I happened to turn around, and I’m amazed to see Winter sitting right behind me with a woman. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to come off like an idiot fan. Then Lazy Lester noticed him too and came over to talk to him. I saw him looking around and knew what he was thinking, so I said, ‘Excuse me, are you looking for someone to take a picture of you and Johnny?’ He said, ‘Yeah,’ so I borrowed his camera and took photos of them with their arms around each other. Of course, my camera was back in the fucking hotel room. Then I shook their hands. Winter headlined the first rock concert I ever went to. I think I was fifteen.
“So then Lazy Lester kicks his own guitarist off the stage and asks Johnny up, who just happens to have his guitar with him. So now Winter’s playing with Lester’s band about ten feet in front of me, and all I could think of was my camera back at the hotel.”
“I guess you couldn’t have asked Lester—”
“Fuck no.” Rowe laughed. “There’s no way he was going to make copies and send them to me. His name’s Lazy Lester.”
Lofton snorted. “No, I guess not.”
“Anyway, what we were talking about. . . . In some banks in the States you’ve got to go through a metal detector at the front door now. If you set it off, the doors in front of you and behind you automatically lock so you’re trapped. It’s probably a good time for tellers to cooperate these days, what with those Jamaicans blowing that woman’s head off. You know, with the shotgun in that restaurant.” He shook his head. “Fucking morons couldn’t understand the concept of a time-delay.”
Lofton finished his beer. “With that stuff in the news, it might not be such a good time. Security will be beefed up everywhere.”
“We just check the places out first, that’s all. I’ll have to get some more details about the guns from Robert if he isn’t in Mexico by now.”
Lofton wondered what Rowe had in the way of liquor. “It doesn’t make much difference what kind of gun it is, if you’re looking down the wrong end of it. You can get shot point blank with a thirty-eight and be okay if it goes through you without hitting a vital organ. With a twenty-two—because it’s a small round—it could hit your rib and bounce up to your collarbone, then go somewhere else. Get shot in the shoulder, and it ends up taking out your liver. You got any scotch?”
“I still want to see what he has.” Rowe sat back with his bottle.
“You got any scotch?”
“Are you in?”
Lofton still didn’t believe he was serious. He knew, however, that Rowe was going to have to be humoured if anyone was going to get a real drink. “I don’t know. What the hell, maybe.”
10
A couple of weeks later when the forecast called for rain, Rowe phoned an ex-clerk who had a job flying hot air balloons, to see if he’d be free to cover the store.
He drove Jack Lofton and Robert O’Hara to Yorkdale Shopping Centre on the northwest side of town to locate another car, and found an unlocked Subaru 4–door in the parking lot. The others waited by the mall entrance with a satchel and knapsack while Rowe hot-wired it and drove around to pick them up.
On the westbound 401 there was conflict when Lofton produced a bottle of rye, as Rowe didn’t want to draw attention with guns in the car or get fucked up when they needed their faculties. O’Hara leaned forward from the back seat for a taste. His scalp was stapled and his face had contusions of varying shades. A bandage covered a potential scar alongside his black eye where he’d refused stitches. Lofton passed the whiskey back and pulled out a pack of cigarettes as Rowe scanned the radio.
O’Hara handed the bottle to Rowe and suggested turning to The Edge, but he said he didn’t want anything loud. After a swallow he passed it to Lofton and fiddled with the FM again, stopping at something mid-tempo.
Lofton rolled his window down. “I still think we should’ve gone outside the city and hit Oshawa Public Utilities or something like that. They’re not watched like banks, and they’re not trained like bank employees.”
“We covered that. Lots of cheques, VISA statements, no cash.”
“I told you—people bring in cash too.”
“Derek, do you have an extra smoke?” O’Hara asked.
Rowe glanced in the rearview mirror. “I thought you were trying to quit.”
“No point today.”
“You should put your hair in a ponytail and hide it inside your collar,” Rowe said, passing the deck back.
“You got a light?” He waited for some matches. “You know what we ought to do? We ought to rip off some dealers.”
“Like you, you mean,” Lofton said.
If there was a response, it wasn’t audible over the rear speakers. O’Hara was looking out the window with a resolute expression. His granite face looked unpleasant in the grey light.
“I still don’t know why you told me that shit about getting beaten up in your fucking pajamas,” Rowe said, pushing in the dashboard lighter.
“I was messed up.” O’Hara brushed his hair aside and put the cigarette in his mouth. Taking it back out, he said, “I didn’t want the boss thinking I was some heavy doper or something.”
Rowe took the rye from Lofton. After a drink, he passed it over his shoulder and picked up his cigarette from the ashtray. “You feel okay now?”
“My ribs are sore, but yeah.”
“Did they get cracked?” Lofton asked.
“No, just bruised.”
“Cracked ribs hurt like a motherfucker,” he said. “I got into a fight with two guys last year who tried to roll me. Believe me, it doesn’t happen often, but I got the worst of it. Doctors don’t even bother taping you up anymore.”
Rowe passed the lighter back. He noticed that Lofton seemed on edge as well. Tapping the wheel, he put on the indicator as he checked his blind spot to change lanes. They were already past Highway 400.
“I can’t believe we’re actually going to do this,” O’Hara said, returning the lighter.
Rowe took a damp hand from the wheel to roam the dial. “You’re an outlaw now.”
“I’ve been an outlaw since the day I was born,” Lofton remarked dryly as he looked out the window.
O’Hara pulled his hair into a ponytail. “Heavy, man. Born under a bad sign.”
Rain began to fall as they approached Islington. The Labatts’ brewery loomed near the next overpass. Rowe turned on the wipers and got into the collector lanes, then, checking the traffic around him, reached for the mickey. “We don’t want to lose our edge,” he said, tilting it for a quick swallow.
Lofton blew smoke towards the ceiling. “Splitting a mickey three ways? Fuck, don’t get me drunk.”
Rowe glanced in the rearview mirror as took the off ramp. He’d picked a branch of the Toronto Dominion for its uncongested escape route along the nearby 401, having familiarized himself with the locale one afternoon when customer traffic had been light. There had been no sign of a security guard.
They drove north past some low buildings and a Sears tower on the left, then an open tract of land where truck trailers were parked. There was a plaza on the right, and another to the west where Rexdale Boulevard branched off. After some trees and apartment buildings a mile or so north of the highway, they came to a long, wide swath of field with hydro transformers fading into the horizon on either side of the road.
“It’s just up here on the left,” Rowe said. “In that mall behind the gas station.”
Lofton and O’Hara looked out the window. There was a Greek Orthodox church on the southwest corner. Opposite, to the rear of a Petro Canada gas station, a small plaza w
as built on an angle with access routes to both Islington and a side street. Rowe turned into the driveway and slowly drove by a bakery and BiWay, barber shop, market, pharmacy, dry-cleaners, Scotiabank, convenience store, restaurant, Toronto Dominion and hair salon. “I picked a place with two banks for good luck,” he said, heading towards the other exit.
“Now where are you going?” Lofton asked.
He turned left, then put on his signal at the lights. “We’re going to regroup.”
The rain was light but steady as they drove south. Rowe pulled into the lot of the strip mall north of Rexdale Boulevard, and wanted to know if anyone else needed to take a leak.
“Is that why we’re here?” Lofton asked.
“I want to cover a few things first. I’ll be back in a minute. If anybody’s going inside for anything, you should go separately so there’re fewer details for anyone to connect us to the bank.”
“Christ.” Lofton looked out the window.
Rowe stepped into the drizzle. As he walked up to Coffee Time, he wondered if he was over-analyzing it. Mathematically, the odds of fucking up were proportional to the number of people involved. Aside from potential errors multiplying, suspects had a tendency to roll over on one another later.
As Rowe stood at the counter, Lofton passed him on his way to the washroom. He’d obviously been drinking before they got together. Sometimes it was only apparent by the degree of difficulty in dealing with him.
Back in the Subaru, Rowe took a sip of coffee and offered some to the others, passing the cup back to O’Hara. “We’ll have to get rid of the bottle so we don’t leave anything behind with fingerprints, including the car.”
Lofton took a final swig and pulled out his shirt, sighing as he wiped the bottle elaborately. “Do you know how little they actually use fingerprints in court—what the odds are of getting a good sample? That’s mostly fiction. Fucking DNA’s what you’ve got to worry about now.” He paused before unlatching his satchel and taking out a pair of thin leather gloves. Putting them on, he wiped the mickey again and glanced around as he cracked the door, putting it on the ground. “Satisfied?”
“You’re getting on my nerves.”
“Let’s just do it, homey.”
Rowe looked in the back seat. “Okay, give me the Glock. Jack gets the Beretta. You remember how to load the Ruger?”
“Yeah.” O’Hara rummaged in his knapsack and handed him the .40 caliber, then the 9MM to Lofton. He checked the writing on the boxes of ammunition before passing them over the seat. “How come you guys get the semi-automatics?”
Rowe finished loading shells into the clip, which he slapped into the butt of the light polymer frame. “That Ruger’s fucking nice. You got a good thirty-eight special there. And it couldn’t possibly be registered, because the barrel’s too short for it to even be legal in this country.”
“Plus, a revolver’s more reliable,” Lofton said. “Less jamming.”
“Remember, I told you that none of the guns are registered,” O’Hara said. “My father’s prohibited from owning any.”
Rowe laid the Glock in his lap and sipped his coffee. He looked in the rearview mirror. “You loaded?”
“Almost. There better not be a shootout, because this only takes five rounds.”
“That’s the idea. The guns are just to keep the peace. Make sure the safety’s on. . . . All right, pass that bag over.”
“But you still have be prepared to use it,” Lofton said, “if necessary.”
Rowe opened the door and poured the rest of the coffee out, then tossed the cup and lid under the car. He took the shopping bag by the handles and brought it into his lap, reaching inside and handing balaclavas to Lofton and O’Hara. He took one out for himself, then a pair of gloves. “Later, don’t forget to wipe everything down that you might have touched in here, all right?”
“I couldn’t really work the trigger with my other gloves, so I brought these,” O’Hara said, holding up some turquoise latex.
Lofton glanced back and snorted, then turned to Rowe. “They’re not going to be able to isolate our prints from millions of customers’.”
“Our prints are on file, so don’t fuck around.” He glanced back at O’Hara. “Keep your hands in your pockets from the car to the bank.” Checking the rearview mirror, he put the car in reverse, wishing he’d had more of that whiskey.
“You guys don’t want to snort a line first, do you?” O’Hara asked.
Rowe hit the brakes.
11
He went over the plan again on their drive back up Islington. Robert was to stand on the inside of the door where he could keep an eye on the idling car and block any incoming customers from leaving.
“You sure you don’t want him in the car so we can get the fuck out of there fast?” Lofton asked. “That’s usually how it’s done, you know.”
“We need him inside so we can get through the tellers quicker. Robert, keep them on the floor with their heads down. And if anyone can fake an accent, do it.” Rowe drove through the intersection and slowed down as they approached the plaza. “If we get them down as soon as we go in, they might not notice our eyes and just think Jamaicans or whatever.”
“Jamaicans with turquoise gloves.”
O’Hara pulled up the collar of his army coat as he tucked in his ponytail. “We’ll be the fucking Dishwashing Bandits.”
Rowe turned into the driveway and pulled into a space. “I’m going to leave it running in front of the bank. We walk up with the bags, guns in our pockets, and keep our heads down until we’re going inside, because the first cameras are by the cash machines.”
“You going to put on the blinkers?” O’Hara asked.
“What? Yeah.” Rowe turned to Lofton. “And we just want twenties, fifties and hundreds.”
“Obviously. So why the TD and not the Scotiabank?”
“I just had a better feeling about it.”
He drove over and parked the wrong way by the curb, facing Islington, and flipped on the indicator. “And don’t lock the fucking doors.”
They walked up. Rowe stopped the others outside the front and looked through the glass for the positioning of the cameras. Turning his back as he went in, he pulled down his balaclava. Masked, O’Hara and Lofton followed. At the second set of doors Rowe rushed a woman coming out with his Glock drawn, and pushed her back inside, shouting, “Everybody on da fuckin’ floor! Dis is a robbery! Everybody down! Face down!”
There were nine or ten customers in line. They turned, one of them in a half-crouch, confused, others standing frozen, a woman already going to her knees. Lofton waved his gun alongside him, and O’Hara got into position by the doors, ordering Rowe’s woman to the floor in what might have been bad Cockney.
“Nobody hit the alarm!” Lofton shouted, aiming up and down the row of tellers with his left hand gripping his right wrist. A middle-aged man standing at the counter hadn’t moved, so he stepped over and hit him in the head with the gun barrel. There was a scream as the customer’s knees buckled. A woman started crying.
Rowe took aim at one of the cameras and fired two rounds, missing, before he shot out a monitor, scattering glass and shell casings, then leaned over the counter and told the teller: “Git up, ya blood clot, ’fore ah cap you! Don’t look at me! Don’t touch da fuckin’ alahrm, anybody, or we fuckin’ kill you! Gimme da fuckin’ money!”
As the man got to his feet and began handing over cash, Lofton went around the back, hauled another teller up, and made her open her drawer. “Everybody back here, get up!” he yelled. “Give us the money, and no fucking dye bombs!
Rowe and Lofton went up and down either side of the counter, stuffing bills into their bag and satchel.
“You blokes want any fuckin’ wallets or rings?” O’Hara shouted.
“No,” Rowe said.
“Why not?”
“Don’t have time for dat shit, mon.” He grabbed some more money, leaving his gun close by on the counter so he could better see the bills and avoid a grenade. “I told you,” he said to the teller, squinting through the eye-holes, “just the big ones. And don’t look at me. Keep your fucking head down!” His patois was inconsistent. “Who got da combination to da safe? Who’s da manager?”
“It is time-locked.” From his voice, the East Indian teller was a Trinidadian or something, who’d know dialects. “We cannot open it.”
O’Hara tried to grab somebody coming in who managed to turn and run, and shot at him twice through the glass of the swinging second door.
In the confusion and screaming, the teller reached over and grabbed the Glock off the counter. Rowe, his peripheral vision impaired, took a wild swing as the teller brought the gun up, then went down for cover and yelled for assistance.
There were four reports from Lofton’s Beretta. The man was hit in the chest and throat as he whirled backwards, spraying blood.
“Let’s get out of here!” Rowe yelled.
O’Hara was shouting at people who were half-up or trying to crawl, while Lofton ran around the counter to the injured teller and picked up the gun.
Outside, Lofton slipped on the rainy walk as he tried to avoid the wounded man on the pavement, and went down heavily. Money flew from his satchel. Bystanders in the parking lot watched Rowe stop to pick up some bills while Lofton got to his feet and limped to the car. Their heads were still covered when they climbed into the Subaru.
“Get down,” Rowe said hoarsely, stepping on the gas.
“They’ll be looking for three people.” He sideswiped a car pulling in, and barely slowed down as he veered around the corner and ran the red light.
“My ankle’s fucked up,” Lofton said as he pulled off the mask, his face sweaty. “How the fuck did he get your gun?” Rowe didn’t answer. “And why the fuck did you start shooting outside?”
